“Cool. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. Then she called a hansom and drove home. " "Rollo!" There were no locks or panelled doors in the bungalow; and Rollo was aware of it. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. ’ ‘And I love the way you call me imbecile,’ finished Gerald. '" "What is that?" she asked.
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